


Orphic Memories

by EnricoDandolo



Series: History is our mother [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, F/F, Ferelden is basically England, Sibling Incest, teenage angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 15:09:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4105414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnricoDandolo/pseuds/EnricoDandolo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even as the gas mask is placed on her face, the Deep Roads around her are fading to black. A voice, strangely distant, begs her -- "Don't leave me ..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orphic Memories

**Author's Note:**

> This is kinda-sorta a prequel to my previous longshot, Born in the Wrong Century. Readers of that fic will be familiar with some of the events detailed herein, from Marian's perspective. If you're curious about the setting, check the footnotes to that piece and its appendix from Fr. Ferdinand Genitivi's _From Blight to Blight - Readings in Thedosian History 5:24 Exalted - 9:30 Dragon_ (Denerim University Press, 9:34 Dragon). If you find any inconsistencies ... well. The author reserves the right to have a better idea.
> 
> Bit angstier than my other works, but do bear in mind that Bethany is 15 years old for most of it, in addition to her usual Issues (TM). She _is_ a DA2 character, after all.
> 
> More ideas than I would like to give credit for were shamelessly ripped off from sumenya, particularly as far as concerns ice cream flavours.

_What Pluto forbids, Love commands:_

_O, Love! Thou art so powerful,_

_And make slaves even of the gods,_

_I am bound to obey thee._

 

 

It is the summer of 9:31 Dragon, and it is hard to breathe.

She gasps for air, but it seems in vain. No matter how she strains her sore throat, Bethany finds herself fading. Around her, everything is blurring, tears come to her eyes and a sharp scent of pepper and pineapple makes her nose burn like fire. Her hands still clutch the gas mask to her chest, but she has had to go down on her knees to steady herself, and fumbles blindly to put the mask on. Bethany tries to focus her mana, buy herself some more time, but the magic seems to slip through her fingers like sand.

She wants to cry out, but only a rattle comes out.

A tender hand takes the mask out of her hands and places it on her face, but she still cannot breathe. “Anders, get your arse over here!,” a voice shouts, strangely distant. Hands on her shoulders as everything turns to black.

“Don’t leave me. Don’t you dare leave me …”

 

 

It is the summer of 9:26 Dragon, five years ago.

On Fridays, Marian has classes until quarter past four. Normally, she’s finished with school far earlier than Bethany – her A-levels of Orlesian, History of Art and PE are cunningly chosen to give her the maximum amount of free time. But on Fridays, Bethany sticks around the schoolhouse to wait for her sister while Carver hurries home to lay claim to both their dinners. Her classmates may have found that a mite odd at first, but she’s not important or memorable enough to care about – something Bethany doesn’t mind at all. She prefers to fade into the background.

And when the comparison is her sister, she finds, that is all too easy. As the bell rings the end of the ninth period, Marian is one of the first pupils to leave the classroom. Bethany waits patiently to the side as her sister says goodbye to her friends with winning smiles and witty remarks. She likes to think that, as Marian turns her smile towards her, it grows warmer, deeper. She likes to think they connect on a level few siblings ever do, as if Marian was her twin, instead of Carver. It’s all a bit silly, frankly.

“Sorry for making you wait,” Marian says with a quick peck on her sister’s cheek. Bethany grins even as the kiss burns hot on her cheek, that’s what she says every time.

“I don’t mind,” she replies as they go on their way. “Gives me time to get some homework done. How was your day?”

“Dull as fuck, as always.” Marian throws a glance over her shoulder to see her Orlesian master hurrying in the opposite direction before slipping out of her uniform blazer and stretching. Bethany is trying her hardest not to sneak a look or two, but she can’t help but notice the way her blouse stretches across her sister’s bosom. She flushes red, nervously fiddles around with the hem of her skirt. Maker, Marian is far too beautiful. “Damn, it’s hot today. Thought I was gonna suffocate in there. Hey, you want to get ice cream? Let’s get some ice cream. I’m paying.”

That brings Bethany back to her senses. “Uh, thanks. Father said to come straight home, though. I’ve got my lessons today.”

Her sister’s smile falls. “Don’t you always …,” she murmurs under her breath.

“You know I have to do this.” It comes out more chidingly than she intentioned. But Marian _knows_ it’s necessary. Bethany _has_ to learn how to control her curse, to protect her family if nothing else.

Marian scoffs at that. “He’s working you too hard. You’re already a great mage …”

“Not so loud! Someone might hear!”

“… you more than deserve some free time, is the point I’m making. Come on, let’s go.”

With a sigh, Bethany takes the arm her sister offered her. Sometimes she wishes Marian took life more seriously. Indeed, it seems at times as if Bethany worries more about Marian’s performance at school, or her future prospects, than she did. Of course, she tells herself, her magic isn’t Marian’s problem. It shouldn’t be. After all the grief it’s caused their family over the year, Bethany wouldn’t blame them if they sent her off to the Circle. Even so, she can’t help but feel pleased when Marian does care – and finds herself casually showing off some of the more impressive things she’s learned when father and Carver aren’t nearby, and revelling in her sister’s praise.

Half following, half being dragged along, Bethany is led outside the school gates. What passes for Lothering’s high street lies before them. “Home is the other way, sister,” Bethany points out as she is dragged in one direction.

“I know. I’m sure father won’t mind if I borrow you for the afternoon. You can do your thing all weekend, if you really have to. But tonight, you’re all mine. And if we don’t get some ice cream soon, I might just eat you up! Come on!” Marian grins at her, the sort of grin she only ever uses when she’s up to something, and Bethany melts before it.

Protesting all the way, if half-heartedly, she follows Marian to the town’s sole ice cream parlour – it is a short walk, just across from the chantry. It’s a small place. “You know, it’s been forever since we did stuff like this,” Marian mentions, hovering over the selection of frozen sugar and cream. “You’ve been so busy, it’s like we hardly ever spend time together anymore.”

That’s true, Bethany has to admit, feeling a pang of guilt. She’s missed this kind of … sisterly bonding. Her upcoming exams, father’s increasingly intricate lessons, the need to keep a low profile – she has been preoccupied. It’s not as if she’s avoiding Marian, she tells herself, even knowing the kind of thoughts that have been entering her mind whenever they spend much time together. It’s just … a useful side-effect. She’s not sure if it will help her, exactly, get her to stop thinking those sort of things – despite her best intentions, she still finds herself drawn to Marian, and just can’t stay away.

“Hey, what do you want?,” Marian calls to her from the counter, “Is it still vanilla and chocolate for you?”

Torn from her thoughts, she nods. It’s a bit daft, really, but having bland tastes helps a lot more than it reasonably should. When she’s wearing her school uniform, she almost feels like she might be someone else, someone who needn’t run all the time. In this matter, it’s not similar.

“It is a bit bland, you know,” Marian comments as she hands her sister a cone of frozen guilt and love. “You sure you don’t want to try something else? I’ve got lemon and pistachio.”

She giggles at that. “That doesn’t sound like a very good combination.”

“It’s better than it sounds. Here, have a taste.”

It’s totally normal, Bethany tells herself, tentatively giving Marian’s cone a lick, _and dear Maker phrasing it that way doesn’t help,_ but even as she thinks that she finds herself flushing red. For an instant, there seems to be a gleam in her sister’s eyes, but she’s sure she’s just imagining that.

 

 

It is the autumn of 9:26 Dragon, and it’s getting rather chilly.

“You should come inside, Bethany,” her mother tells her. “You’re going to catch a cold out there.”

She only smiles and says; “I’m fine, mother. Just a little longer.”

Mother makes a face. “At least wait in the parlour. Sitting on the doorstep for two hours in the middle of the night, what will people think? You haven’t even changed out of your school uniform yet.” The parlour, of course, is the tiny living room of the Hawke family’s terraced home, and does not truly warrant that name, but Leandra Amell has never been able to quite shake off her privileged upbringing.

Bethany rolls her eyes. “Fine. I’ll come inside in a few minutes.”

For a moment, her mother hesitates, then she sighs. “You know she’s not likely to come home for hours? She couldn’t care less for her curfew.”

“She’ll be home soon. I … know it.” She doesn’t, really, but it’s easier to explain it that way. “It’s a … thing.”

Leandra raises a doubting eyebrow. She knows enough about magic to tell when her daughter is making things up. Nonetheless, she says: “Very well. I’m going to bed, though. Don’t stay up too long.” With a quick peck on Bethany’s brow, her mother retreats back inside the house.

Bethany checks her phone, again. Still nothing, but time flows like molasses. It’s dispiriting to see the minutes pass so slowly. Mother is right, of course, she has no business sitting outside at this time of night. She’s got school tomorrow, and the least she could do is go inside and practise her magic. But she knows she could not focus, not now. Her thoughts are elsewhere.

She doesn’t recall how long she sits there, waiting. It is long past midnight, all the windows along their street are dark, when she finally hears footsteps approaching – heavy steel-capped para boots, in a quick-paced gate she recognises by sound. Bethany rises to greet her sister. She is alone, and she is fuming. So it didn’t go well, then, Bethany thinks, trying not to feel pleased at that. “Are you alright?,” she asks as Marian stomps past her into the house. “What happened?”

“Don’t worry about me,” her sister murmurs, storming up the stairs to her room. “You should go to bed, get some sleep.”

Bethany ignores that and followers her sister into her room. It’s a right bloody mess, as always, there’s scarcely space to sit or stand. There are a few posters on the wall, mostly bands and abstract designs, but also a large propaganda poster dating all the way back to the War of Independence, showing General Mac Tir. Between the posters, writing – their parents have long given up on trying to keep Marian from scribbling on the wall with permanent markers. A torn-up Fereldan flag serves as a curtain, more a statement than patriotic. Marian throws herself on her bed, and Bethany follows and sits on the edge of the bed beside her.

“What happened?,” she repeats. “Talk to me, sister.”

“It’s nothing,” Marian tells the wall, rather lamely. “Just … just some bullshit.”

Bethany bites her lip. She’s worried more than she probably should have about this, and it seems she was right. “He didn’t … he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

That makes her sister snort with amusement, which is at least some comfort. “Fucking knife-eared wanker tried to touch me. Won’t try that shit again. Broke his arm, I did.”

“Andraste’s breath, Marian! Are you alright?”

“I said as much, didn’t I? Don’t worry about it, Bethy. I’m perfectly fine. Just … just go to bed.”

“We both know there’s more to it than that.”

There is a lengthy pause. Then: “Do you ever … do you ever feel like you _need_ something, and you know you can’t have it, and every substitute tastes like shite?”

“I wouldn’t know what that tastes like,” Bethany says, with a wry smile, “But yes, I think so.”

“How do you deal with that?”

She doesn’t know how to answer that question. The easiest way – she doesn’t. Despite her best intentions, she can’t isolate herself from her sister, can’t stay away from her. And, of course, she knows that trying to push ahead and seek release would only make things so much worse. So, she doesn’t answer Marian’s question. Without knowing what’s happened, she finds herself lying next to Marian, trying to strike a balance between a comforting embrace and a proper distance.

“Fuck, I shouldn’t throw this on you,” her sister eventually says, turning around to face her. “Maker knows you’ve got enough on your plate. School, your magic … big sisters ought to be there for their little sisters. Not the other way around.” She chortles. “Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”

She smiles. “I _am_ there for you. Always. If you want to talk … if there’s anything I can do …” Bethany utters a surprised gasp as Marian draws her into a tight embrace. She holds her breath as her face is pressed against her sister’s shoulder. She smells of sweat, leather, and alcohol, but none of that matters right now. Their bodies are warm against each other, and Bethany is burning up with desire and torment even as she clings to Marian.

Neither of them speaks.

When they awake, they are still in each other’s arms.

 

 

It is the winter of 9:26 Dragon, and she is learning to reshape gravity.

“Steady,” father tells her without looking up from his work. “Keep it steady. Use the rotation of the earth to help guide your mana.”

Bethany bites her lip and tries to do as he says. She focuses her magic, concentrates – something which mostly seems to express itself in glaring at the raw egg wobbling in the air before her. Rotation of the earth, huh? She has to take a moment to figure out which direction that would be. _It’s about noon, so the sun is to the north, and the earth spins eastwards …_ Having calculated that, she gives it another try. She lets the mana flow from her hand and …

With much force, the egg shoots off away from her, and crashed open on the opposite wall of the garage. Father looks up. “Oh dear,” he says, “Let’s try that again, shall we?” With a snip of his fingers, the yolk and white lift themselves up from the wall and the shell reforms itself around them.

“Show-off,” Bethany murmurs under her breath.

Her father ignores the comment. “It’s not a difficult exercise,” he chides her. “You have to keep up a steady flow of mana from your body into the object. Here, do the maths again.”

Without touching it, father sets the egg down on his workbench. Bethany sighs, but does as she is told and sets herself to recalculating the amount of mana required for the task she has been set. At times, she wonders if it’s her who’s making the mistakes or he – she’d like to have a second opinion on the strength of her mana pool, but father is the only other mage she knows. She can do spells, with some practise, ranging from brief Magelights to (theoretical) Firestorms. It’s uncodified magic that gives her grief. Still, if father says she has to know this … she probably has to know this. She reaches for pen and paper and tries to recall the formula that governs the relation between mana and mass. Unlike her exams at school, she’s not allowed a book of tables in these private lessons – even if she had one that included arcane physics!

Some pages into her calculations, she looks up at her father. He is completely absorbed in his work, illuminated by a warm, bright winter’s sun. With economic, regular movements, he shaves off one layer of wood after another with his drawknife. A rough shape is beginning to emerge, but Bethany can’t quite place it. “What are you working on?”

He takes a moment to reply. “A staff,” he eventually says. “I’ve got a few ideas for the enchantment, but first I want to get the shape right.”

“You already have a staff,” Bethany points out. “Didn’t you say a mage should always keep their first staff as a reminder of their masters?”

That makes him chuckle. “Indeed. But this one is not for myself.”

“Oh.”

“Is that all you have to say? You don’t have to tell me how to design it just yet, but a ‘thank you’ would have been nice.”

She blushes. “I … of course. I’m sorry. Of course I’m grateful. It’s just …” It’s just that she’s not ready for this. A staff, father has taught her, is to be given to a young mage upon passing their Harrowing and becoming a full-fledged member of a Circle. She is an apostate, and will never have a formal Harrowing apart from the terrors that tempt any mage in their dreams. Possessing a staff – somehow she knows that it would symbolise a commitment to her magic. She knows she’s stuck with it, one way or the other, as Tranquillity is not an option, but that does not make her any keener to accept that part of her. She bites her lip and says nothing.

“You fear the responsibility,” Malcolm finishes the thought in her stead. “Don’t. Being a mage is not always easy, and being a free mage is dangerous. But you are luckier by far than most apostates your age. You’ll be fine.”

Because you have a family willing to protect you, is what she knows her father means. Yes, she replies silently, a family willing to take the fall every time it seems like I might be discovered. A family that has to live in fear of abominations through my very existence. A family, yes, but for how long can she expect them to keep putting up with her? As long as father is here, she knows, she is safe, but his health is failing even if he doesn’t want to show it. He’s already survived two strokes. If he should die … then she will have to choose the Circle, for mother’s and her siblings’ sake.

Bethany lowers her eyes. She knows it is callous of her to think such thoughts. Marian wouldn’t be making plans for father’s death like that. But Marian would know what to do, whereas she can’t even … can’t even rid herself of feelings she knows she shouldn’t have.

Father seems to sense her unease, and her doubts. He wipes the resin and sawdust of his fingers, then reaches into his pocket and produces a neatly folded red silk handkerchief. Unfolding it reveals two intertwined birds in crimson stitching. “A gift,” Malcom explains. “From your mother. That was before we had a chance to get married, just after we’d eloped from Kirkwall.”

“So this is … some sort of alternative wedding ring?”

That makes him chuckle. “Yes, and no. It was for us. To hear your mother tell it, it’s a tradition in the Amell family. When an Amell thinks he has found the love of their life – the one person they couldn’t imagine life without – tradition demands that they give them such a token. For some, it is a marriage proposal. For others, it’s a sign of things that are not to be. Whatever the case, it is always supposed to be an expression of perfect erotic love.”

Bethany gingerly touches the kerchief. “That’s sweet.” For an instant, a flight of fancy takes her, but she just knows that the only quicker way to ruin her – sisterly – relationship with Marian would be demonic possession.

“Also a bit cheesy, frankly. Still … when your mother gave this to me,” Malcolm continues, softly, “it shew me that it was the Maker’s hand that had led us to each other. If I hadn’t met your mother, I would likely be dead, or still in the Circle. And every time I was afraid that the Templars might find me, or that Leandra would leave me and return to her family with you children, this token reminded me that I was not alone.” He folds the kerchief into a neat square and returns it to his pocket. “I had Leandra,” he tells her. “And you have all of his. We’re with you, all the way.”

She knows that he’s wrong, but she can’t bring herself to say that. Father’s choices might not be her own, but that is because he is much stronger than she could ever be. He has found his piece of happiness, and does not deserve to be saddled with her doubts. So Bethany smiles and says “thank you.” She smiles and tries the egg again, this time with more success.

 

 

It is the spring of 9:27 Dragon, and Malcolm Hawke is dead.

It happened suddenly, without warning, a stroke at the dinner table. Two days later, he expires. The funeral is the week after, in the Chantry of Our Lady of Lothering. Revered Mother Victoria keeps her homily brief, and very general – Malcolm Hawke had been respected in the community, but always kept himself apart. In a spot of irony that would no doubt have grimly amused him, the chantry’s small detachment of Templars stand vigil over his coffin during the service, in full dress uniforms, their way of showing respect to a man they would have been obliged to slay, had they known his true identity. Normally, Bethany avoids them when she comes to the chantry, but right now she doesn’t care.

Together with her siblings, she steps up to the coffin. Excepting the day of his death, Bethany has never seen a corpse before – from books, she’d imagined a dead person would look like they’re asleep. Father – the thing that used to be father – looks nothing like that. It’s not gruesome. It’s not the stuff of nightmare. But it is all too clear that, whatever had made Malcolm Hawke who he had been, was long gone.

She’s been trying not to cry – not where others can see her – for mother’s sake, if nothing else. Her siblings deal with father’s death in their own ways: Carver lashes out at people left and right, and today is the first time in a week she’s even seen Marian. Someone needs to be there for mother, who has lost her husband of nineteen years and the love of her life. Bethany worried that she would burst into tears at the funeral, let mother down, but now that she actually see’s father’s remains before her, there’s little chance of that. She has had her moment of remembrance, when she took the staff he had been making for her and placed the last few enchantments on it. She doesn’t need to cry over an empty shell.

Bethany sneaks a glance at her siblings. Carver looks furious and awkward at once, like he’d rather be anywhere else. It’s been hard on him. He’s never been that close to father, something she knows is her fault for being born with magic. Carver hadn’t deserved that.

Marian – Marian is stunning as always. She looks older than she is in her charcoal suit and black tie, and … and … That’s right, Bethany tells herself, a feeling as if there’s something in her throat, focus on her looks. She’s beautiful today, remember that, not the fact that her fists are shaking in anger, that her steely eyes are welling up with tears.

After a while, the siblings return to their seats to let other mourners have a moment at the coffin. It feels like they sit there in the pews for hours. It’s almost a relief when the Revered Mother leads their family outside to the funeral pyre in the chantry’s courtyard. “ _Oh, Maker_ ,” the Revered Mother sings from the Canticle of Trials as she seals the coffin and mother breaks out in tears, “ _hear my cry: seat me by Your side in death, make me one within Your glory, and let the world once more see Your favour._ ” Mechanically, Bethany takes mother’s hand. The Templars mount the casket on the pyre, then stand at a respectful distance.

The Hawke siblings share a glance. Finally, Marian steps forward, roughly yanks the torch from Sister Leliana’s hands. Without a word, she holds it to the pyre until the dry wood catches fire. Soon, the entire construction is alight. Marian drops the torch on the ground and returns to her siblings. The tears are gone, her face a stony mask. “ _For You are the fire at the heart of the world,_ ” the Revered Mother continues, and Bethany lowers her head in prayer. It doesn’t help much, Andraste isn’t keen on mages. “ _And comfort is only Yours to give._ ”

Somehow, the saddest thing about this is that there is not a single one among the assembled mourners that truly knew her father. How many of them, she wonders, would have sold him out to the Templars in a heartbeat?

As the pyre burns to its foundations and the long parade of faceless mourners passes by the Hawkes to give them their condolences, it begins to rain. A cliché, Bethany detachedly recognises, when does it ever not rain at funerals in films? Of course, this _is_ Ferelden in Eluviesta. A bit of rain is the least they can expect.

It seems to take hours until the last of the congregation make their ways home. The Revered Mother and a few of mother’s friends escorts them home, but there is little solace they can give, and they soon leave.

Bethany feels guilty for leaving mother alone at a time like this, but there are things she feels she has to do. All her life … out of the Hawke siblings, she was likely the closest to their father, out of necessity if nothing else. Between Andraste’s teachings, Marian’s derision, and most of all father’s boundless confidence, Bethany had always found a precarious balance. Now …

She enters father’s study. Often she has watched him open the secret bottom drawer of his desk, which contains his grimoire. For some reason, she’s always thought a proper grimoire should be a heavy, intimidating-looking tome bound in leather, containing lists that started with _Itym_ and words like _ſinfullneſse_ or _forsooth._ Father’s grimoire is a thick ring binder filled to bursting with loose leafs of graphing paper and colourful post-its. Its contents are appropriately eclectic: spells and rituals from every school of magic and some that don’t fit any of them, diagrams and tables without explanatory labelling, diary entries, shopping lists, all in Malcolm Hawke’s sorry excuse for proper handwriting.

Bethany sits at father’s desk and leafs through the grimoire. Despite the breadth of the teaching she’s received, she understands little. Here and there, she can guess at father’s meaning, but most of his notes remain – arcane. Words jump at her out of the text, _Veilstrength index, thaumic disfiguration, transreal passenger, danger, semi-permanent sanguine shackling, invariably fatal, destructive, demon, abomination …_ She shivers as the letters blur before her eyes. Father knew full well what they might become at any moment. How could he not? It’s always there, the temptation. Every night is a battle, every dream a potential ambush.

Maker, she thinks to herself, how am I ever going to do this without father?

There is a knock on the door. “Bethany?,” her sister’s voice asks, uncustomarily tender. “May I come in?”

She realises there are tears welling up in her eyes, and quickly wipes them away with the sleeve of her dress. “Ah, yeah.”

Almost silently, Marian steps into the study and closes the door behind her. Half-squatting behind her, her sister rests her head on her shoulder, lays her arms around her waist. “Are you okay?”

“I’m … I’m fine. Where’ve you been? I haven’t seen you for … since he died.”

“Here and there. Drifting, like. Trying to clear my head. That’s father’s grimoire, isn’t it? I suppose it belongs to you now.”

She cannot help it – after a week of being strong, keeping calm, doing what must be done, these words bring her to tears. “What will happen to us?,” she murmurs, swallowing her sobs. “With father gone – I’m dangerous. I’m a danger to all of you. I need to go to a Circle, get away from you …”

“Don’t say things like that. You’re already an amazing mage. There’s no demon that stands a chance against you.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, sister.”

“Maybe not,” Marian concedes. “But I know that you’ll be fine. Remember what father used to say? ‘My magic serves that which is best in me, not that which is most base.’ That’s always been you. You’d never use magic to hurt people. You’re strong, Bethy. Stronger than I’ll ever be. And you’re not alone.”

Bethany lays a hand on her sister’s, gives a wry smile as she bites back the tears. “You’re here for me,” she finishes the thought, trying not to be sarcastic. “Aren’t you always?”

She isn’t sure what gives it away, but she can sense Marian hesitate. “There’s … something we need to talk about. I’ve been meaning to talk to you since before father died, it’s just …”

There is another pause as her sister searches for the proper words. Go on, Bethany thinks, say it. It’s not like it’s unexpected. I hear Lake Calenhad is lovely this time of year.

“I’m going to join the Army,” Marian finally bursts out. “Fuck! There. Said it.” She takes a deep breath. “Right. I’ll be done with school in two months, and then I’m volunteering.”

Bethany is taken aback, swivels her chair around to face her sister. “I was … expecting something else.” She finds herself avoiding Marian’s eyes, forces herself to look at her. “The Army. Huh.” There’s all kinds of things she’d like to say at this point. For starters, being a soldier is _dangerous._ If – when – there’s war with Orzammar, and Marian is out there on the front lines … she doesn’t want to think about it. Not that the other point she has is much better. You can’t tie her to you forever, Bethany tells herself. It’s not right, in so many ways. She doesn’t know how, but somehow she manages a faint smile. “I hope you’ll be happy.”

Marian takes her hands. “Hey, this isn’t goodbye. I’m not leaving you.” Remembering something, she reaches into a pocket of her suit. “Close your eyes.” Bethany does as she is told. There’s a rustling sound, Marian’s hands at the back of her neck, tying something together. “You can look now.”

Her sister has tied a red silk kerchief around her neck. Silently, Bethany lets the silk run through her fingers. “It’s … just an old family tradition mother told me about,” Marian hastily explains. “If you don’t want it, that’s okay …”

It’s not a very good kerchief, Bethany notices. The silk is fraying at the edges, the colours are faded, and the stitching of two hawks has clearly not been done by an ornithologist, or someone adept at stitching, for that matter. “What does it mean?,” she asks, quietly. She remembers the conversation she’d had with father in the garage, just a few months ago, after it had kept her lying awake at night for weeks, imagining a better future that mustn’t be. Maybe Marian had misunderstood. Maybe she had.

Marian averts her eyes. “When an Amell …,” she begins, and halts herself. “Mother told me …” She scoffs. “Maker, I’m bad at this. Look … Bethany … I have no idea how to put this. There’s a lot of things I have to figure out, and this is one of them. I promise – I swear to you – that I will always have your back … that I will always keep you safe, no matter what happens … and, and … that I will always come back for you. There. That’s my promise, shite as it may be. And … if you want more than that …” Again, she breaks off, the last words drifting aimlessly.

“Take it or leave it,” Marian lamely finishes, without looking her in the eyes.

Bethany has listened through all this in stoic silence. She’s not entirely sure what her sister is trying to say. The entire idea that this might be what she thinks it seems like is absurd … highly unlikely. If it were … no. No one is that messed up, certainly not Marian, who always knows what to do. Her hopes sink. Someone must have misunderstood something along the line, and Bethany can see no way of finding out where without utterly ruining her relationship with her sister.

Except, perhaps, for one.

“Close your eyes,” she says, echoing Marian’s words.

“Huh?”

“Just do it.” Her sister hesitantly obeys, and Bethany quickly removes the neckerchief. Silk rustles, Marian flinches, and shirks from her touch as she leans forward and gently ties it around her neck instead. Bethany smiles, and bids her sister open her eyes again. “I’ll take it,” she says, softly, “And right back at you.”

All the demons of the Fade could not have prepared herself for what comes next. For a moment, Marian stares at her, motionless, and then she shoots up to meet her and presses her lips against hers.

For a small eternity, Bethany is stunned, trying to register what just happened, and reconcile it with logic and reason. It … doesn’t work very well. Marian’s lips remain where they are, both hard and soft at once – tender, yet forceful. She’s wearing lip gloss, which she hasn’t noticed before, it tastes faintly of … well, of lip gloss, actually. Still … Bethany closes her eyes, slings her arms around Marian’s neck.

Hours could have passed like that, and she wouldn’t know it, Maker forgive her.

When they finally part, Marian’s eyes are on fire. “I’ll come back for you,” she breathlessly reiterates. “No matter what happens.”

By the time the next kiss touches her lips, Bethany is ready to believe her.

 

 

It is the spring of 9:30 Dragon, and the Darkspawn have broken through at Ostagar.

The news from the south is utterly terrifying, sparse as they are. The government has instituted a media blackout, though Bethany is pretty sure that the Archdemon does not read the papers, and the Internet is, as always, rife with useless misinformation. There is nothing that can hide the looks in the eyes of the soldiers that pass through Lothering, though, and if one cares to look deeper, it is clear that they are deserting en masse. The chain of command, if there ever was one, has wholly broken down.

There hasn’t been a message from Marian or Carver in weeks.

The Blight has turned Lothering, Ferelden’s southernmost train station worth mentioning, into a military town. Even now, trains to and from the south are leaving and arriving within minutes of each other, trying to get as many soldiers to safety as can be found. Day and night, Bethany waits anxiously for signs of her siblings, tries to ask soldiers wearing the patches of their regiment for information. They never have any, even if they do recognise their names. She asks where they got on the train, and every time they reply with a stop further to the north, closer to Lothering and farther from Ostagar.

Her dreams are worse than usual, and she is utterly terrified that, sometime last week, she’s stopped dreaming of Carver. When she goes to pray at the chantry, Sister Leliana tells her not to worry, that both her siblings will be alright, but in her heart she knows that praying for Carver is futile. She can only hope that Marian still lives, unlike so many others. Bethany wears the kerchief every day now, around her neck or her wrist. She thinks mother must know what this means, but doesn’t have the energy left to protest.

Rather than in the pews of the chantry, she sits on the northbound platform of Lothering’s station now, waiting. All around her, soldiers, their uniforms caked in blood and mud, their expressions tired. There doesn’t seem to be any sort of organisation going on. Even those officers whose rank insignia can still be recognised appear to be exhausted. Many have thrown away their equipment, some their weapons. She directs them to the chantry as best she can, and then to the schools and gyms that have been transformed into impromptu barracks after the news from Ostagar broke. She wishes there was more she could do to help, but she doesn’t know where to start.

Bethany looks up when the earth shakes, as two steel golems, a mabari and a woman wearing not very much at all approach her. Only when one of the golems removes its helmet, revealing an attractive young blonde, does she realise they’re soldiers wearing those new suits of powered armour she has read about. She doesn’t quite recognise the insignia on the suits, which are painted deep blue and grey, but it’s clearly not RFA issue. “My good woman,” says the blonde in a voice that demands immediate obeisance, and it takes her a moment to realise that it is her who’s being addressed. There’s something unsettling about being addressed as a “good woman” at the tender age of nineteen, by a girl who can’t be much older than that. Her armour is caked in mud and grime, and is that bit by the elbow Darkspawn flesh? Nonetheless, she moves with the complete confidence of someone who can tell you the name of their great-great-great-great-grandfather and what embarrassing disease he died of, and knows instinctively that they are better than you. The dog barks and wags its tail. “Ai say, you look like a local. Hwonderful. Do be a dear and tell us hwhere the chantry is,” the soldier continues, putting aitches where none belong.

“Uh,” she says. “Uh, you just go right down the road from the station until you get to Jainen Square, and then it’s just a few dozen metres to the left. Ma’am.” Somehow, that feels appropriate.

“Capital. Let’s not tarry.”

Quickly, Bethany reaches out to hold them for a moment, only to realise that firstly, that suit of armour looks like it weighs a ton and could lift twice as much and secondly, that there’s Darkspawn flesh stuck on the elbow. “Just a moment,” she calls out. “I’m looking for my siblings. Marian and Carver Hawke. They’re with the Royal Southron Fusiliers. Have you heard of them?”

There’s some pity in the posh lady’s eyes. “Ai’m sorry, my dear. The last I heard of the Southrons, they hwere stationed near Hwarburton. If they’re not here yet …” She breaks off.

“I saw a few of the Southrons at the other end of the platform,” the other soldier helpfully offers, his voice distorted by his helmet. “Might be they know more.” Bethany knows whom he means, she’s already talked to them. She smiles and thanks them anyway. As they depart, the scantily-clad woman bickering with the male soldier, Bethany takes a few deep breaths.

Still no sign of her siblings. Mechanically, she touches Marian’s neckerchief. How long had it been since they had been together? That must have been almost five months ago. Marian had had home leave a few times in between, but there had never been an opportunity, with mother nearby all the time … Maker, but she misses her. If she closes her eyes, she feels like she can still catch a trace of Marian’s scent on the silk, though she knows that can’t possibly be the case. It’s a sorry substitute for the real thing.

Yet another train pulls into the platform. She doesn’t have very high hopes for this one, but she stands at the exit anyway and tries to survey the crowd. This is not helped by the fact that many of the soldiers are looking for others as much as she is, so that she sees some people over and over again as they move back and forth between the platform and the “missing persons” picture wall that has been erected by the exit to the station, whereas others don’t step off the platform at all. Still, she prays, Carver’s almost two metres tall, and Marian has eyes that can drill through steel, they shouldn’t be this hard to find …

The next batch of camouflaged men and women, fresh from the trenches, pass her by, with her siblings nowhere in sight, and the train departs. Sighing, Bethany returns to her seat off the side. How long has she been here? It feels like days. She’s been listening to the soldiers’ tales, it seems everyone is telling a different story of Ostagar. The only things they can agree on are that General Mac Tir, the King and the Commander of the Grey were all involved in some manner, and that from one moment to the other the No Man’s Land before the trenches was swarming with the Darkspawn horde, and that, no matter how many fell under heavy fire, it took the spawn less than an hour to break through their lines …

After that, everything is conjecture. Mac Tir got out as many as he could, Mac Tir shot the King in the back, the King was murdered by the Wardens, the Wardens sabotaged the trenches to regain their influence, the Darkspawn used a thaumic weapon, the _Orlesians_ used a thaumic weapon, and so forth. No two stories are the same, and Bethany suspects they are all equally true or false. The only other thing everyone seems to agree on – that no one at the Ostagar ruins had made it out alive by the time the air force showed up to carpet-bomb the horde and cover the frenzied retreat of the rest of the army.

Bethany shivers. What if Marian and Carver had been at Ostagar? In their letters, their locations have always been censored.

But, no. No, no, no. She mustn’t think like that. Even if she no longer dares hope for her twin’s survival, Marian must live. She promised, didn’t she, the day of father’s funeral? No matter what …

She wishes she’d been there, with them. She has no illusions that her magic could have stopped the Darkspawn, but at least she’d know – it’s the uncertainty that’s really killing her. Once again, she touches the cloth around her neck, issues a silent prayer for the Maker to lead her sister back to her. In return, whatever He wants – she’ll stop using magic if that is what he wants, end their relationship if that’s what it takes. So long as she can see Marian again.

Another train pulls into the station. The intervals between services are longer now. There can’t be many survivors left down south. She watches intently, but the passengers are the same assembly of weary, beaten soldiers, the same mass of grimy camouflage as on all the others. Marian is nowhere to see.

“Bethy? Bethany, is that you? Oh, thank the Maker!” A figure detaches itself from the crowd, as grimy and tired as the rest. She barely recognises her, but her eyes light up when she flies into her arms. It is a long kiss, a good kiss. A really good kiss You know it’s a really good kiss when your feet get in on the action. Not picture-perfect, maybe, but it’s the expression of all her fears, and all her worry, finally dispelled. Bethany doesn’t know who’s looking, and finds she doesn’t care. She has her sister back.

“I’m so glad to see you,” she whispers as they pull apart ever so slightly, tears in her eyes. “I thought I had lost you.”

There’s a wry smile on Marian’s face. “I promised you, didn’t I? I’ll always be back for you.” Again, they kiss, briefly this time, but necessary. When they separate, her sister points at a pair of soldiers she hadn’t noticed before, watching them. “Right. Uh, those are Aveline Vallen and her husband, Ser Wesley. I wouldn’t have made it without them.”

“The serjeant is selling herself short,” the redheaded woman comments. She’s wearing the same uniform as everyone else. She doesn’t recognise her husband’s uniform, but his title and the dirk at his waist say ‘Templar’. Right now, that doesn’t matter. He’s already seen enough to arrest her, and hasn’t. “None of us would have made it on their own.”

Bethany nods silently, can’t find words which would adequately express the gratitude she feels. She realises she’s still holding Marian’s hands, and sheepishly lets go. Then, she realises who’s missing. “Where … where is Carver?,” she asks her sister, even as she already knows the answer.

Her sister looks away. “Let’s not … talk about that yet,” she murmurs, and Bethany knows that Marian has seen things, done things, that she can never hope to forget.

 

 

It is the summer of 9:31 Dragon, and she awakens in a hospital.

There is an oxygen mask on her face, but every breath she draws feels like it might split her insides. She can’t see, yet, things are either black or blurry. Marian is there, the hand that holds hers, and so is mother. They say that their friends have brought her flowers, but she can’t smell them yet. Disembodied voices assure her that she will be fine. The doctors are amazed at the recovery she has made.

As she regains her sight, and with Marian’s help, she tries to piece the events of the past weeks back together. They had been in the Deep Roads, three weeks under the surface and newly rich, when they ran afoul of a Legion operation. Chlorine gas, the doctors say. Demon’s breath, Marian says, a shadow running across her face. Anders did what he could, but in the end there had been no choice but to bring her to the surface, to a proper hospital.

The doctors, Marian says, suspect that someone has used magic on her. She doesn’t know if they suspect her of being a mage. There’s ways to find out, she is aware, but they’re not exactly routine tests.

So she thinks, until there is a sharp rap on the door of her room and a stone-faced man in a Templar uniform enters. “I am Knight-Captain Rutherford,” he says. “We have been informed of the presence of an apostate here.”

Marian stands in his way, a silent glare that could cut through silverite.

“Sister … stop it.” She finds herself saying the words, without knowing what prompted them. Her sole remaining sibling gives her an incredulous glance. “It’s over. I don’t want you to get hurt over this.” Not any more than she already has.

“Bethy, you don’t understand. That … that _cunt_ is going to take you from me. From us.” She glares back at Ser Cullen, who takes the insult and the glare stoically. “He’s not leaving this room alive.”

“Don’t make this difficult, Serah Hawke.”

Bethany stands up from her sickbed, reaching for Marian’s shoulder to support herself. “Don’t,” she begs, struggles. Instantly, her sister is there to catch her in a tight embrace. “Don’t.” Bethany aspirates a barely-there kiss on Marian’s lips. “You’re only making it worse. Just … stay safe, okay?”

There is no reply. She cannot bear to look at her sister’s face.

“Do what you have to do,” she tells the Templar. “There’s no point delaying it further.”

 

_But alas, what am I hearing?_

_Might those be the Furies, to my loss_

_Arming themselves with anger_

_To take my bliss from me?_

_I’ll not allow it!_

**Author's Note:**

> The start and end quotes are a fairly close translation of part of the aria "Qual honor di te fia degno" from Alessandro Striggio's libretto for Claudio Monteverdi's early opera _Orfeo_ (1607). For those not familiar with the opera (and why not?), this is the part where Orpheus is tempted to break Pluto's decree not to look back at Eurydice as he leads her from the Underworld, losing her as he does so through "an excess of love".
> 
> Some minor notes -- the sun rises to the north of Thedas because it's on the southern hemisphere of its world. Why do the seasons in correspondence to the calendar still work like on our northern hemisphere? Because the calendar's new year is based around the seasons, not the other way around. I.e. the Thedosian new year is some time around our June / July.
> 
> I like the thought of Grey Wardens in power armour, so I kept it in. Imagine a mix of Mass Effect and Fallout. What Lady Cousland and Alistair are wearing in their cameo is not actually that much more advanced than current Earth tech -- the US Army has at one point played with the thought of introducing powered combat armour by 2030, and it looks absolutely fabulous. Here, development was given a bit more focus by the Wardens and the Dwarves, this AU's technological powerhouse, because the Darkspawn don't have the industrial base to equip the entire horde with firearms and melee combat is still very much a thing when you're fighting them. You can take cover against an opponent armed with a gun, but when your opinion is wielding a massive spiky club, a good suit of armour is rather more helpful.
> 
> I'm not actually British and haven't lived in the country for long, so if you're a Brit and find and messed-up Briticisms, just think of Ferelden as a completely fictional country that was in no way inspired by England. And no, Lothering is most certainly not deepest Essex, whatever gave you that idea?
> 
> If you've bothered to read this far, you may as well leave a review. Raving is optional.


End file.
